Of Precocious Youngsters and Immature Adults
by pickledoatmeals
Summary: "Dad, you needn't be embarrassed. I'm already eleven years old. Besides, I've walked on you two several times already, didn't I?" Hamish walks in to his parents just after they shagged.


_I hated how this turned out, and certainly not my best work, but here it is anyway. X"D_

_Not beta'd/not britpicked. All mistakes are mine._

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"Sh-sherlock," John said in between gasps, "We c-can't."

Sherlock just hummed, nipping John's ear whilst groping his arse.

"Sherlock!" John berated, but all that came out of his mouth was a wanton plea.

The consulting detective abandoned his husband's right ear, and skidded his pink, teasing tongue along John's neck. He stopped groping John's arse and began undoing his belt buckle. His free hand made circular motions at the small of the doctor's back, eliciting scandalous moans from him.

"C-Christ, you twat," John said in between pants, "Not i-in the k-kicthen! The food! Ha-oomph!"

He was cut off when Sherlock reacquainted his lips with John's, and in a matter of seconds, it turned into a furious war of lips against lips, teeth against teeth, tongues against tongues. The hand that was cradling the small of his husband's back transferred to the his neck, and the hand that was undoing the now undone belt fondled John's length instead.

John broke the kiss and gasped for air, looking furious. Sherlock shot him a questioning glance. He placed his hands in front of the other's chest—("Clothed, the bloody cheek!")—and hissed in an angry but libido-addled voice, "Hamish will come home in a matter of minutes. I am certainly not having sex with you in the bloody kitchen."

Sherlock resumed to giving John a handjob and whispered in his ear (with that oh-so sinful and lust-inducing baritone of his), "So you'll let me touch you if we move this to the bedroom?"

He placed butterfly kisses all over John's jaw, neck, and face, never stopping stroking his doctor's prick. The fisted knuckles on his chest transformed into pliant limbs wrapped on his neck. John laid his head onto Sherlock's shoulders, stifling his cries, chiding his detective over and over and over gain to move their activity to the bedroom.

"Please, love," John pleaded weakly, "I-I don't want our s-son to see me sitting on the table whilst you t-touch me."

"No worries," Sherlock growled, kissing the tip of John's nose, stroking him a lot more furiously, quickly, hardly, "He's already used to this."

"T-that's not an option!" John retorted. He can feel the familiar knots inside his stomach tightening, like dormant rusty cog wheels which were wound again after a hundred years of inactivity.

"You're close now," Sherlock purred, "If you really didn't want this here, you wouldn't even let yourself come this close."

"Fuck you!" the doctor snapped, earning him a full kiss on the lips, and faster and harder strokes.

Inside their mouths were tongues tangling and untangling themselves; in the nether regions of their bodies were a pair of hands and a rock-hard cock leaking white pearls, and in front of the door to their flat was—

"SHERLOCK!" John cried, ribbons of white coating the two them. His detective gave him a quick kiss on his swollen lips, and he buried his head on the crook of the other's neck. They remained silent for a few minutes, and when they caught their breaths, he said with a dry laugh, "You're still clothed, for fuck's sake."

"And we never got to the bedroom, despite your protests," Sherlock replied, "And our son just entered the flat."

John's body tensed. A look of panic washed over his features. He looked Sherlock in the eyes and muttered, "Hamish is already here? How come I didn't hear him?!"

"Well, you were shouting rather loudly..."

"Stop that! Where is he, anyway?"

"He's—"

"That's okay Dad, I didn't see anything; I went inside after you came."

They both craned their necks towards their son who was looking at them nonchalantly. John was red all over. He buried his face deeper in the crook of Sherlock's neck, and embracing him tighter.

"Dad, you needn't be embarrassed. I'm already eleven years old. Besides, I've walked on you two several times already, didn't I?" and he muttered, "Corrupted my mind at such a young age even..."

Sherlock snickered, patting John's back and kissing his forehead.

"And Father," Hamish turned to Sherlock, "I wish that you'd stop seducing Dad while he's making dinner. I'm tired of eating takeaways for the third time this week."

"But it's your Dad's fault for—" Sherlock retorted, but was cut off by their son.

"Father," Hamish said in that annoyingly reprimanding voice, "You find Dad sexy every millisecond of the day."

John's red face was still buried in that cosy space, while Sherlock pouted absentmindedly.

"Now, if you two plan on shagging for the remainder or the day, do it anywhere but my room. Mrs Hudson's roasted lamb should be ready any minute now, so you needn't worry about that ruined steak and kidney pie. Also, if you don't want Mrs Hudson to freak like the first time I walked in on you, clean yourselves now."

How did Hamish know that John was making steak and kidney pie from a few seconds's glance at their obstructed kitchen didn't enter their minds. Instead, they focused on cleaning themselves, the mortification of being scolded (yet again) by their son ebbing away. They were even having a few laughs about it.

"Let's get cleaned up before he berates us again," John said as he stood up. "We wouldn't want Mrs Hudson seeing us like this."

Sherlock just smiled, and placed a quick kiss on his husband's lips.


End file.
